


the mountains are dancing

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [88]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, Friendship, M/M, Mokuton!sakura, Rescue, Time Travel, mentioned body horror, mentioned experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Hang on,” Obito whispers, pressing his hand against the back of Sakura's head so she won't have to watch the White Zetsu approach. “Close your eyes, Sakura, you’ll be fine.” Maybe he can bargain with them, or maybe he can stall them, useless as he is. Maybe there's a way she can survive this, even if Obito can't.And then there's a step, loud on the rocky bank. “I think,” a voice says, calm and perfectly even, “that you're trespassing on Senju lands.”





	the mountains are dancing

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on my Tumblr that went....sideways.

“I’m cold,” a voice whispers against his throat.

Obito doesn’t look down, concentrates on keeping his footing on the edge of the cliff as he hurries. “I know,” he says, pressing a hand over her small back, and wonders if he wants to risk the chakra for a fire jutsu. Wonders if he _can_ , because he’s running on the very dregs of his chakra, can't even keep his Sharingan active right now when normally it’s effortless.

“They're getting closer,” Sakura tells him, tiny fingers curling in his shirt, and Obito catches himself on a tree, glances back with his heart beating in his throat. Damn it, they are; he can see flickers of movement at the top of the hill, coming down the slope. This is an unfamiliar world, and Obito has no idea where he’s going, but clearly they don’t share that problem.

“Do you remember anything?” he asks, a little desperately, because there are ten of them and one of him, and though normally he’d laugh at those odds, right now his vision is swimming, and there's a hollow, aching emptiness in his bones that he’s never felt before. Too much chakra used getting them here, not enough time to take any more in from the air around them, and Obito is still suffering the after-effects of Madara's Rinne Tensei, the battle, having the Juubi extracted, all of Madara's experiments afterwards—if he wasn’t quite so stubborn, he’d already be dead.

Sakura tightens her arms around his neck, and he can feel the pace of her heart kick up. “It was scary,” she says. “Everyone was fighting. And then the mean man took us away.”

The Fourth War and its aftermath viewed through a child’s eyes, not a woman’s. Obito closes his eyes, wonders if cursing in front of her counts as cursing in front of a child, and then wonders why he cares after all the things he’s done. Keeps it in, regardless, because he might as well if he’s turning over a new leaf. Sakura's all of five right now, and she probably won't take well to him swearing.

“We got away, don’t worry,” he tells her, hitching her up a little higher on his shoulder as his foot slips over the edge of the cliff. He hisses as Sakura gasps, sheer reflexive panic bolting through him, leaps back to solid ground with a staggering lurch, and breathes recriminations at himself as stones and loose earth clatter down the cliffside.

Sakura points over his shoulder again, and her voice trembles when she says, “We didn’t get away from _them_.”

This time Obito doesn’t waste a moment glancing back at the White Zetsu that are closing in. “We will,” he promises, and hopes like hell that he isn't lying. “Just hold on a little longer, okay?”

There's a shaky breath before Sakura nods sharply. “I’m fine,” she says, stronger this time. “If we cross the river, will that stop them?”

_Not at all_ , Obito wants to say, but—she’s holding it together when no one would expect her to, and maybe that’s a bit of the teenager she was shining through the five-year-old, but it’s still impressive. “Let’s try,” he offers instead, though he can't quite hide the touch of grimness in the words. There's no way water will stop the last of Zetsu's clones, but the other side of the river is flatter, looks easier to navigate, and at this point Obito will take any advantage he can get.

Sakura nods, equally grim as he heads for the sloping ground that leads towards the river below. “Next time,” she says, “you should leave them behind instead of bringing them.”

Obito can't help the laugh that jars from his throat, honestly amused despite everything else. “I’ll try,” he says, even though the likelihood that he can ever manage a jump like that again is slim. Madara got careless, thought they were beaten, and Obito had taken advantage, just the way Madara trained him to. It probably killed the bastard, the way it almost killed both of them, and Obito is viciously, incandescently glad, even if it did land them in this situation.

He can feel Sakura's quick, bare smile pressed to his throat as he staggers down the incline, ground just a little too unsteady under his feet. Not a jutsu, even though it makes him think of Doton and cave-ins and that awful, overwhelming pain; this is all on Obito, on his fading balance and the way darkness is edging his vision even as they emerge in the sunlight. He can't stop, though, _won't_ , not when Sakura might as well be a first-year Academy student despite who she _used_ to be. Madara's manipulations to her seal are unstable, and Obito has no idea what he did or how to fix it. If she has to fight, if she tries to use it—if she even _can_ , with a five-year-old’s mind—it might age her back to where she should be, but it might also do something else entirely, and there's no telling.

“I can walk,” Sakura tells him, and Obito thinks about protesting, but the surge of relief is too strong. He pauses on the rock shoreline, all but dropping her on her feet, and she grips his hand tightly as she starts moving, pulling him towards the water.

“Do you remember water-walking?” Obito asks belatedly, and then wonders if _he_ can manage it. The river’s current is slow, but the water looks deep, and there's no shallow crossing that he can see. Like the Nakano, almost; this bend of the river looks something close to familiar, though it’s entirely possible that Obito is seeing things at this point.

Carefully, Sakura tests it, puts one foot on the surface and presses down. When her footing holds, she nods and steps out, balancing herself warily. “I’m okay. Are we going right across?”

“Yeah.” Obito grits his teeth, funnels a touch of his remaining chakra to his feet. There isn't much of it, and even that much effort makes his head spin, but he grips Sakura's hand and keeps moving anyway. They got free of Madara, and in light of that, this _definitely_ isn't going to be what kills him.

Sakura tightens her hold on his hand, carefully lifting the hem of Obito's shirt with her other hand to keep it out of the water. She looks almost comically undersized in it, but Madara hadn’t cared enough to give her clothes suited to her new size and her old things had been long gone, stripped away for the sake of Madara's experiments. Obito's guilt had been—is—a gnawing, painful thing, and he’d given her his shirt without pause, let her burrow in next to him in the cold cell and whisper about her worry for people whose faces she couldn’t quite remember.

They've escaped, though, and even if they can't go back Obito _knows_ he took enough chakra to kill Madara when he jumped them across dimensions and towards the closest alternate that resembled their own world. If it _didn’t_ kill Madara, it at least left him vulnerable, and Obito is sure Naruto or Sasuke or one of the others will take advantage. Madara made sure to keep them all in view of each other, after all, just for the audience when he was gloating. No Eye of the Moon plan, not without the moon that Kakashi and Obito hid away in Kamui, but Madara was using all of them anyway, working towards his perfect world with what he had.

Not anymore, Obito thinks, and there's enough energy left in him to be viciously satisfied by the thought.

“Come on,” Sakura urges, tugging at him, and Obito swallows, forces himself to move faster. He can hear the White Zetsu behind them, jeers that are getting closer with every moment, and he grits his teeth as they stagger off the river’s surface and up onto the bank. If he had chakra, if he could hide them away—

Creeping roots catch his foot, and he crashes to one knee as Sakura cries out in alarm. _Too close_ , Obito thinks with a bolt of cold horror—the White Zetsu are limited by their imperfect Mokuton, don’t have nearly as much range as Black Zetsu. If they're close enough to grab him, they're almost on him and Sakura.

He thinks, for half a moment, about telling Sakura to run, even as he’s dragged backwards. There's every chance the White Zetsu are in the trees ahead of them, though; they seem to know this place, even if Obito doesn’t, and she’s even more helpless than Obito right now, won't stand a chance against them. At least Obito has an adult body, can fight to some degree. _Should_ be able to, but—

He kicks out, tears his foot free, then twists around another swath of reaching vines and snatches Sakura off the ground as he staggers upright. The trees ahead of them might as well be a trap, with the Zetsu after them, but there are six figures wading into the river and they can't go back that way. Obito grits his teeth, weaponless, out of chakra, with Sakura clinging desperately to his neck, and wonders what the hell the point of escaping Madara was if they’re just going to die here, like this.

“Hang on,” he whispers, pressing his hand against the back of Sakura's head so she won't have to watch the White Zetsu approach. “Close your eyes, Sakura, you’ll be fine.” Maybe he can bargain with them, or maybe he can stall them, useless as he is. Maybe there's a way she can survive this, even if Obito can't.

And then there's a step, loud on the rocky bank. “I think,” a voice says, calm and perfectly even, “that you're trespassing on Senju lands.”

Obito's heartbeat trips. He jerks around, eyes widening at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man stepping out of the forest, unarmored, unarmed. His head is lifted, a steady expression on his face, and when he sees Obito looking at him he smiles, warm and reassuring, before his gaze slides back to the Zetsu and hardens faintly.

_Hashirama_ , Obito thinks, and swallows, not sure if the pressure in his chest is relief or terror. Not Edo Tensei’s carefully crafted zombie, eerie and off, but a living man. Obito can feel his chakra like a beacon, brilliant and green as spring. He tightens his grip on Sakura as the Shodai approaches, retreats a step—

“We’ve got to take care of escaped prisoners,” the closest White Zetsu says, bloodily cheerful, as it surfaces from the river, grinning widely. It takes a step up onto the shore, dagger-tipped branches sprouting from one side of its body. “The boss charged us with it.”

If they were men once, they're not now. Driven, perfectly obedient to Madara, with no higher thoughts to get in the way. Obito swallows, eyes flickering over the six approaching from the front. Four more, somewhere, because he accidentally brought ten with them when he phased them out of their reality, and they're likely lurking in the forest, waiting to spring their trap.

“I'm sure your boss will accept this as an excuse,” Hashirama says, and it’s not a threat, but the knowledge that it could be is right beneath the mild words. “The Senju Clan Head denies you entry to these lands. You’d best retreat, or I may take it as a declaration and react accordingly.”

The foremost White Zetsu doesn’t even pause. Laughs, sharp and amused, and leaps for Obito in a surge of Mokuton, and it’s too close, too fast. Obito twists to the side, kicking it away even as he shields Sakura, ducks under the next one only to have a third surge up out of the ground and right into him. Sakura screams, scrambling to grab him as she’s dragged out of his arms, and Obito _snarls_ , throws himself into the Zetsu and slams it into the ground with a cry. It drops Sakura, turning on Obito, and he rolls, trying to confuse it, trying to bind limbs that are suddenly sprouting like killing blades. He knocks one away, but there are three more in its place, and the Zetsu laughs victoriously as its body deforms, twists out of shape, leaps at him like a Venus flytrap snatching its prey.

Kamui is instinctive, automatic, _useless_. The Sharingan won't even activate, and the split second Obito spends thinking it will work is a second too long. Branches stab through his chest, a blaze of pain that makes him cry out, echoed by Sakura's voice, and—

A blaze of chakra like a rising sun, earth trembling, trees groaning. Like a god rising, massive wooden dragons rise from nothing, whirl out from the trees and down off the cliff, and one sweeps the Zetsu right off of Obito's chest. It snatches the creature in its teeth, shakes its head like a dog breaking a captured rabbit’s neck, and drops the White Zetsu right at Hashirama’s feet. Three more fall as the dragons sweep across the banks, then another three. In the midst of them, Hashirama turns, thrusts one hand into the earth, and branches erupt from the ground, a pair of Zetsu speared in the center of the tangle. They're writhing, but each movement is slowing, fading, and Obito swallows, breathing through the pain, the swimming sickness of blood loss, and remembers that Hashirama’s Mokuton can drain an enemy’s chakra. Like he wasn’t dangerous enough on his own, Obito thinks wryly, closing his eyes. He lifts a hand, but there are holes in his chest and he doesn’t know which one to put pressure on first.

“No!” A figure hits the ground beside him, laughably small and wrapped in Obito's tattered shirt, and Sakura presses her hands to his skin, leans over him with fear and fury on her face. There's a spark of green around her fingers, and Obito's body takes it eagerly, reaches for more, but he drags himself back. Sakura's reserves are too small to risk healing him, and he catches her wrist, pulls her hand away.

“Sakura, don’t,” he rasps, as close to commanding as he can get. “Go with—”

“I'm not _leaving_ ,” Sakura says fiercely, and tugs free of his weak grip. “You can't leave either!”

Obito might not get much of a choice about that. He’s bleeding too heavily, doesn’t have enough chakra to heal himself. Sakura can't use her Strength of a Hundred Seal, and by the time Obito can absorb enough chakra from the air it won't matter anymore. He grimaces, lets his head fall back against the stones, and tries to think of a way to convince her.

Somewhere between the thought and the action, he loses time, and there's nothing but darkness.

 

 

“No!” the little girl cries, and Hashirama winces, casting a careful eye over their surroundings before he lets his Mokuton fade. The last two of the strange clone creatures are scrabbling at the ground, trying to drag themselves back towards the river, but a sweep of Hashirama’s hand spears them with a dozen branches, and they crumple, chakra vanishing.

Nine, Hashirama thinks, heading for the former prisoners. Nine pursuers for a man and a child, and clearly they’re valuable to whoever had them. All the more reason to get them out of sight as soon as possible. Or to get the girl away, at least; he saw the man’s fate, and it aches, the idea of a parent sacrificing themselves for their child like that, especially in front of them. But he saved the girl, kept her from the creatures, and for that alone Hashirama will honor his sacrifice.

“No, no, wake _up_!” the girl cries, shaking the man, and Hashirama winces. The man’s eyes are closed, and there's a vast amount of blood on the ground around him. Too much to be survivable, he thinks sadly as he crouches down, and—

The girl is trying to heal him. Her hands are glowing green, bright and steady, and even though sweat is already beading on her face, she isn't wavering. The man’s chest is still rising, even though there's blood on his lips, and for the first time since he saw those branches, so like his own Mokuton, pierce the man’s chest, Hashirama feels a flicker of hope.

“Here,” he says, and the girl startles, looking up with wide green eyes. Hashirama raises his hands, trying to show her he means no harm, and says, “I have enough chakra, but my medical ninjutsu is poor. Can you direct it?”

Fierce relief washes across her face, and she nods, reaching for his hand without hesitation. She twists their fingers together, then closes her eyes, and Hashirama can feel the surprisingly careful pull of his chakra leaving him, sliding into the man through the girl’s jutsu. Precise in a way he wouldn’t have expected of a child so young, practiced and skilled, and as he watches the wounds close over, leaving scarred skin behind. Old scars, terrible and twisted and deep, a match to the scars on the man’s face, and Hashirama can feel his stomach turn over at the sight of them.

“Is this your father?” he asks quietly, not wanting to break the girl’s concentration.

Green eyes flicker to him, then back to the man, and she hesitates, wavers. Trying to decide whether to tell him he truth, Hashirama thinks, and gives her the moment instead of pushing.

It pays off. After a long second, the girl nods, and says, “He’s my dad. He got us out of the cells, but—” Her gaze flickers to the still body, and she swallows.

It would be too much for any child. Hashirama rests his free hand on top of her pretty pink hair, and smiles when she looks up at him. “You’re very skilled at medical ninjutsu,” he says, and doesn’t let himself think about why she would be at her age. “It looks like he’ll be fine.”

_Fine_ might be something of an exaggeration, but he certainly looks far better than a moment ago, his breathing steadier and his color better, his chakra reserves increased from nearly nothing to at least _something_. The girl looks him over, and her mouth firms as she nods, sitting back on her heels and letting the jutsu fade.

“He was trying to tell me to go with you,” she says determinedly. “So I trust you. O—Daddy can tell when people are good.”

Foolish, maybe, but Hashirama still finds himself touched by the trust. He smiles, strokes her hair, and then carefully pulls his hand away from hers and leans forward, sliding his arms under the man. “I'm Senju Hashirama,” he says. “The Senju Clan Head, and you’re welcome to stay with my family. Your father might be more comfortable there, and you’ll certainly be safer.”

“I'm Sakura,” the girl says, meeting his eyes, and she has a steel of spine the way Mito does, visible in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin. “Thank you for saving us.”

Hashirama smiles back as he lifts her father, settling him carefully. Light, like he’s malnourished, and if he was a prisoner Hashirama isn't surprised. “It was my—”

A _heave_ of stone moving beneath their feet, a surge of branches not under Hashirama’s control stabbing towards him. Towards the man he’s carrying, and Hashirama is hampered by the weight, by the fact that he’s off balance and still rising. He braces himself for the impact, wills wood up to shield them even though he knows it will be too late—

There's a cry, a flare of chakra. Sakura throws herself in front of him, arms outstretched, and her palms collide with the creature as it bursts through the earth. The moment she touches it, light flares, and Hashirama can feel the air shiver, swift and sharp and _warm_.

The branches stop a bare inch from the man’s skin, tremble, _twist_. And then they bloom, sending off leaves, curling in on themselves as flowers sprout along their lengths. The creature jerks, letting out an eerie, wavering cry as it writhes, boneless in a way no loving thing should be. That warm-soft chakra crawls across its body, and the twisting becomes growth. It stretches, surges, and Hashirama takes a step back as its feet plant in the ground, its arms stretch up and out. Bark, leaves, flowers, and—

A cherry tree groans as it stops growing, branches swaying over their heads and heavy with blooms. There's no trace left of the creature, and Hashirama catches his breath, too stunned to do more than stare.

“Oh,” Sakura says, faint and startled, and her eyes roll back in her head as she crumples. Immediately, Hashirama reaches for her, hoisting her father up on his shoulder and scooping her up in his free arm, and—she’s breathing. Alive, though her chakra is fainter than it was a moment ago. Too much strain, Hashirama thinks, and breathes out, closing his eyes.

Mokuton. The creatures and the girl were both using Mokuton, though the creatures’ was a rougher, harsher version of his own. _Prisoners_ , the creature said, and Hashirama thinks what it really meant was _experiments_. He knows full well that his gift is something every other clan covets, and that some would do anything to get it. Tobirama will know if it’s possible that someone could recreate it, though Hashirama supposes asking is just a formality when the proof is right in front of him.

“You're both very interesting, aren’t you?” he murmurs, settling Sakura on top of her father’s chest and carefully lifting both of them in his arms. Heavy, but manageable, with a touch of chakra to help him bear the weight. They’re both thinner than they should be. Prisoners too long, Hashirama thinks grimly, settling the man’s head against his shoulder. Those scars—he doesn’t want to contemplate how old they are, if they were given to him by the same people who had him. What it means that he has such a young child, when the scars are clearly so much older. Hopefully love against the odds, but—their world is a cruel one.

The path back to the Senju compound is easy, well-remembered. Hashirama’s walked it a thousand times, but he can't remember the last time he was so glad that his evening stroll brought him to the river. He’ll get Tobirama to check the forest for any unfamiliar chakra signals, get Tōka to take a squad along the man’s trail in case there are any more escaped prisoners. Double the guard on the walls, in case any more of the creatures appear, and make sure the healers check over both father and daughter. Hashirama can provide chakra for them, since it feels as though they both are in dire need of it.

They're definitely the most interesting thing he’s found by the Nakano since he first met Madara there, Hashirama thinks, bemused, though hopefully there will be a better ending for all involved here than the situation with the Uchiha.

 

 

Obito wakes to something soft beneath him, something warm laid over him, and it’s so different than every awakening in recent memory that he can't even panic. He opens his eyes, one hand reaching out, and—

It’s weighted down. Captured, and Obito jerks his head around to look for bonds, ready for some new experiment Madara wants to try, some new way of harnessing the Rinnegan and Mokuton and the Strength of a Hundred Seal. He’s braced for pain, for torture, but there's none to be found. Just Sakura, curled on top of the blanket and clinging to his hand. She’s in clothes that actually fit her, her hair brushed and her face clean, and Obito stares for a long moment, uncomprehending.

“She insisted she didn’t need her own bed,” a soft voice says, and Hashirama leans over Obito with a warm, kind smile, brushing his hair back behind his shoulder. “It was all I could do to get her to bathe and eat. Your daughter is very protective.”

Daughter. That’s—that’s a sensible cover to default to, in this sort of situation. Obito carefully gets an elbow under himself, pushing up, and there's none of the expected pain, no pulling scabs. He’s experienced enough of Sakura's healing to recognize the feeling at this point, and he breathes out. Stupid. Too much exposure to Naruto, probably. She’s going to kill herself one of these days if someone doesn’t stop her in time.

This time, at least, she likely had help. The Strength of a Hundred Seal hasn’t been activated, which means she got the chakra to perform the healing from somewhere else, and Hashirama was the only alternative.

“Thank you,” Obito says, and it cracks in his dry throat, emerges barely recognizable as words. “For saving us.”

Hashirama’s smile deepens. “Sakura ended up saving both of us,” he says. “Thank your daughter.” A pause as he looks Obito over, and then he offers, “You're in the Senju compound, east of the Nakano River. I'm Senju Hashirama, and you're welcome to this place as long as you would care to stay.”

Kind, Obito thinks, closing his eyes. Damn. Two years listening to Madara's mad ranting about Hashirama’s blindness and stupidity, and he’d entirely missed that fact about the Shodai. Not that he’s Shodai yet—if they're still talking about clans, about compounds, there likely isn't a Konoha yet. This might be a dimension where the timeline is a century behind, or maybe they traveled at some sort of diagonal through time and space, leaving them in the past of a dimension where there’s some other sort of difference.

“Still, thank you,” he says, clearing his throat, and carefully sits up, trying not to disturb Sakura. She’s fast asleep, though, bonelessly unconscious in the way of small children pushed beyond their endurance, and she doesn’t stir even when Obito pulls his hand away and lightly strokes her hair.

“It’s not every day I meet someone else with Mokuton,” Hashirama says, and the tone is light, but there's a tired sort of sadness to his eyes as he holds Obito's gaze.

Obito hesitates, but—Hashirama is the only man Madara ever considered his match, and beyond that he’s a good one. Idealistic and relentless in defense of Konoha, of his people, and that likely wasn’t the lesson Madara intended Obito, a wide-eyed child, to take away from his stories, but Obito did regardless. A secret hero, somewhere in Obito's heart, even as Madara twisted the world into knots of anger and hatred around him.

“Two someones,” he says wryly, and lifts a hand, judging his chakra levels. Safe enough for something small, he thinks, and narrows his eyes, willing the green sleeping in his bones to rise to the surface. It takes a moment, slow to come like growth in the middle of winter, but a sprout curls out of his skin, lifting small leaves towards the light.

(Zetsu trained him in stabbing branches and strangling roots, the blow of a broken beam swinging out to crush, but in the darkness of the long nights, in the moments he spent alone, Obito liked the softer, kinder, more careful kinds of growth. Liked to watch flowers sprout beneath his fingertips and vines curl green and verdant across cavern walls. Rin always loved flowers, and Obito wanted to create a world where she would have been happy, even if she couldn’t share it.)

Wonder lights Hashirama’s expression, and he reaches out, sliding his hands under Obito's, cupping Obito's hand between his own larger, darker ones. A smile spreads across his face, something sweet and awed, and he leans down, his hair falling in a curtain around him. The seedling curls towards him like he’s the sun, branches rising, and Hashirama laughs. Calloused fingers press against Obito's skin, and Hashirama looks up, dark eyes bright.

“You too?” he asks. “I've never—you use it so well. It’s _beautiful_.”

It isn't the only thing, Obito thinks, swallowing. He drops his eyes to watch the seedling leaf out, slow and steady, and then separate from his skin, roots curling around his wrist. “I'm Obito,” he says, because Sakura likely remembers enough about being a shinobi and last-minute improvisation to leave his last name out of things, even as she went for the obvious cover. “We’re—it’s from your cells.”

A touch of that sadness dims the joy in Hashirama’s eyes, and he smiles wryly, bows forward. Presses his forehead to Obito's fingertips and breathes out, slow and resigned. “I thought as much,” he says. “I'm so sorry. What was done to you—forgive me, I—”

“Had nothing to do with it,” Obito finishes for him. Swallows, and forces himself to think about Madara in this world, younger and still Uchiha Clan Head and still marginally sane. It makes his stomach turn, nausea rising, but—this is the Senju Clan, not the Uchiha with all the terrible memories attached. Obito is unspeakably grateful for the fact that it was Hashirama who found them by the river and not Madara. “It was all him. You had your cells stolen. You were a victim, too.”

“You're too kind.” Hashirama lifts his head enough to flash him a wry smile, then reaches down. The tatami matt parts under his fingertips, earth shifts and rises, and in a moment there's a neat circle of soil in the floor beside the futon. It’s the perfect size for the seedling, and Obito lets Hashirama guide their tangled hands down, settling the plant in the earth and pressing the soil down over its curling roots.

For a long moment, Obito stares at the tiny tree, watches its leaves unfurl and steady, and then carefully lets go of Hashirama’s fingers. “The Zetsu—” he starts.

“Between your daughter and I, we took out ten of them,” Hashirama confirms, and his smile brightens noticeably. “She wasn’t sure if there were more than that, but my brother is a sensor and he couldn’t locate any others in the forest.”

“No, that was all of them,” Obito says in relief, and rubs at his eye, wondering if this is the point his past self would cry. Probably, but all the hate in Obito burned out his tears when Rin died, and he hasn’t been able to find them since. He’s weaker for it, he thinks grimly.

A hand touches his scarred cheek, light and glancing but enough to make Obito flinch even so. Instantly, Hashirama pulls back, raising his hands and there's embarrassment on his face. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you, I've just—never seen an eye like that. Is it a dojutsu?”

Right. Because no one at this time knows about the Rinnegan beyond the fact that it’s the third great dojutsu. No one knows how it’s formed, and Madara hasn’t started pulling the eyes from innocent Uzumaki children to implant his own. Obito breathes out, tries not to shiver at the memory of Madara taking one of his Sharingan, implanting the Rinnegan a second time, but—

His hands were cold, and his expression was something close to mad. Obito hadn’t been able to fight back.

A hand catches his again, slides up his arm. Hashirama hooks an arm around his shoulders, pulls him in, and in an instant Obito finds himself buried in a tight hug, Hashirama’s arms around him, that soft dark hair falling all around them. Hashirama smells like green and growing things, like spring, and Obito breathes it in and feels his eyes burn.

“Hush,” Hashirama says gently, and doesn’t let go. “I'm sorry I asked. You don’t need to tell me. This place can still be your home even if you never tell me another thing, Obito. For you and Sakura both.”

Obito's breath hitches, and he buries his face in Hashirama’s yukata with a raw, broken sound, leans into to the warm solidity of him with a desperation he hasn’t felt in years. Hashirama holds him tightly, murmuring into his hair, and Obito can't make out the words but he can catch their meaning even so. Comfort, and kindness, and a place to stay. A person to keep them safe, even when they can't protect themselves, and Obito doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Hashirama laughs, warm and soft.

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, and strong fingers curl around the back of Obito's neck, stroke the short hair there and make Obito shiver. “You have Mokuton, and you and your daughter are very brave. I'm honored to have you both in my clan, Obito.”

Obito casts a glance at Sakura, curled and dreaming on the blanket. Thinks of their escape and Madara's death, that awful, desperate flight to the river, and the sheer _relief_ he felt when Hashirama stepped out of the woods. Of waking warm and rested, and the gentleness of Hashirama’s chakra curled around his own.

Smiles, bare and genuine, and rests his forehead against Hashirama’s shoulder as the tension he’s been carrying for decades finally, finally eases.

“Believe me,” he says, and laughs, rough but heartfelt, and the green sleeping in his bones seems to _sing_. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to either of us in a long time.”


End file.
